The Black Prince

by Peter Corris

  PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

  The Cliff Hardy collection

  The Dying Trade (1980)

  White Meat (1981)

  The Marvellous Boy (1982)

  The Empty Beach (1983)

  Heroin Annie (1984)

  Make Me Rich (1985)

  The Big Drop (1985)

  Deal Me Out (1986)

  The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

  The January Zone (1987)

  Man in the Shadows (1988)

  O’Fear (1990)

  Wet Graves (1991)

  Aftershock (1991)

  Beware of the Dog (1992)

  Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

  Matrimonial Causes (1993)

  Casino (1994)

  The Washington Club (1997)

  Forget Me If You Can (1997)

  The Reward (1997)

  The Black Prince (1998)

  The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

  Lugarno (2001)

  Salt and Blood (2002)

  Master’s Mates (2003)

  The Coast Road (2004)

  Taking Care of Business (2004)

  Saving Billie (2005)

  The Undertow (2006)

  Appeal Denied (2007)

  The Big Score (2007)

  Open File (2008)

  Deep Water (2009)

  Torn Apart (2010)

  Follow the Money (2011)

  Comeback (2012)

  The Dunbar Case (2013)

  Silent Kill (2014)

  PETER

  CORRIS

  THE BLACK PRINCE

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014

  First published by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1998

  Copyright © Peter Corris 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

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  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

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  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76011 017 8 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 804 6 (ebook)

  For Lincoln Webb, who introduced me to the benefits of weight training and, although he didn’t know it at the time, gave me some of the material for this book

  PART

  ONE

  1

  I was lying on my back with my right leg up in the air, trying to get my hands to reach to my ankle. They wouldn’t do it. Mid-calf at best.

  ‘I call those executive hamstrings,’ Wesley Scott said. ‘Do you play any sport, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Cliff,’ I said, still trying and failing. I switched legs. Worse. ‘I play a bit of tennis.’

  ‘How often? Ease up, Cliff, you’ll hurt yourself.’

  I relaxed. ‘About once a month.’

  ‘Warm up? Stretch before and after?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Like I say, executive hamstrings. Get up and let’s look this over.’

  I got up creakingly. Wesley Scott was the proprietor and trainer at the Redgum Gymnasium and Fitness Centre in Norton Street, Leichhardt. He was a West Indian who’d been British and European body-building champion in the 1970s before marrying an Australian woman and migrating. He had African features, ebony skin, a shaved head and a body of iron.

  Lately, my own body had been letting me down. I was tired at night and in a recent tussle with a thug who was trying to maim the man I was protecting, I had to resort to very dirty tactics to subdue him. He was getting the better of me before I eye-gouged him. I didn’t like either feeling and I decided that I needed some toning up. Hence the visit to the gym for a ‘fitness assessment’.

  Wesley Scott had prodded and poked me, put me on an exercise bike and used calipers on various parts of my body. He’d entered his findings on a chart and was examining it now. He wore a black singlet, a red and silver tracksuit bottom with matching Nikes and leaned elegantly on an exercise bench. ‘Hmm, not too bad for your age. Body fat to weight ratio okay, could be better. Aerobic fitness above average but not by much. Flexibility poor. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  I was unprepared for that and bridled a bit. ‘Why? You said it wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘You’re what? Let’s see—184 centimetres, eighty-three kilos. I’d say you did a lot of sport when you were young, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Surfing, boxing . . .’

  ‘Pretty good were you, man?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘You had a naturally athletic physique and a strong constitution which you’ve let run down. When did you stop smoking?’

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Did it for how long?’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘How much do you drink?’

  ‘Too much.’

  ‘What I mean. You go on as you are and you’re going to tear a hamstring playing tennis or do a knee ligament. What kind of work do you do?’

  ‘Security, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Shit! Does that get physical?’

  I thought of the heavy with the hard stomach and the knuckleduster. ‘Occasionally. Not if I can help it.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  His manner was a bit hard to take—almost aggressive, not quite. Very serious, but slightly mocking. He smiled, then threw a punch at me. From old habit, I slipped it and moved inside and could have thumped him over the heart except that I suspected it would have hurt me more than it would him.

  ‘Hey, Cliff, you’re quick. That’s good.’

  He was pleased and I was pleased. That got us on a better footing and I told him about the fight I’d almost lost and the tiredness and a few aches and pains stemming from old injuries.

  ‘I can give you a weight training and stretching program that’ll make a new man of you if you stick at it. Three days a week, an hour per session. Plus some deep tissue massage that’ll hurt but get the kinks out.’

  I signed up for five hundred dollars for a six-month program and started going to the gym early on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. The first day, Clinton, Wesley’s son, a slim coffee-coloured youth with cropped hair and perfect teeth doing a degree in human movement at the Southwestern University, took me through the stretching exercises and showed me how to work the weight machines. Bench press, leg press, leg curls, pull-downs, back extensions, abdominal crunches and sessions on the exercise bike and rowing machine. Gradually, I upped the weights and the repetitions and was gratified to find myself getting stronger and more flexible.

 
; To my surprise, I enjoyed the work-outs and the camaraderie among the people in the gym. No poseurs or narcissists, Wesley’s clients were serious trainers—professional men and women, basketballers and footballers, police, dancers and actors of both sexes—a mixed bunch. When Wesley was on deck the radio played ABC Classic FM; when Clinton was in charge it was Triple J.

  Wesley turned out to be a man of many parts. He’d been a jazz musician, a stage and TV actor and stuntman in Britain, a county cricketer and he held a Master’s degree in Physical Education. He had a passion for Mozart and Shakespeare and was apt to quote from Bill when he was pummelling the hell out of me. His wife was a teacher. He had a daughter at the Conservatorium and he was active in Sydney’s surprisingly large West Indian community. After a couple of months, having enjoyed his stories about London, the Portobello Road, Yul Brynner and other big names, and endured his Shakespearian allusions, I counted him as a friend.

  Gyms, I found, are strange places. All the sweat and strain doesn’t conceal subtle tensions that can lie under the surface. Workout partners can in fact be engaged in bitter competition; instructors can offend the clients with a misplaced word about technique and the instructors themselves can fall out. As far as I could see things weren’t entirely harmonious between Wesley and Clinton. Clinton’s attendance was somewhat irregular and he struck me as moody. Once, when he hadn’t showed up for a spell, I asked Wesley about.him.

  ‘In a huff,’ he said. ‘Pauline, his sister, said something to him about the way he treated women and he took it wrong. Well, he took it right, I guess. He’s treated a few girls badly. He stormed off and said he’d never bring a girl home again.’

  ‘That’ll blow over when he wants a good feed.’

  Wesley smiled without humour. ‘He’s a good boy, but he needs to learn something about reliability.’

  ‘I’m still learning about that myself.’

  ‘He takes things to heart. He’s fought with everyone in the family at one time or another.’

  I didn’t put much store in that. So had I.

  A week or so later I rolled in for my massage after upping the weights on the leg press and increasing the reps on the abdominal crunches. I pushed open the door to the massage room, feeling pretty pleased with myself, thinking of investing in new gym gear. The ancient tennis shorts were getting pretty ratty.

  ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,’ I intoned. ‘We’ll stop the gap . . . Hell, what’s the matter, Wes?’

  I’d expected to find Wesley flexing his muscles, leering and slapping his oiled hands together with a sound like a thunderclap. But he was sitting, dressed as I’d never seen him, in jeans, shirt and leather shoes, in a chair in a corner of the room. He was forty-four and normally looked ten years younger; now he looked his age and a bit more. His massive shoulders were slumped and his usually taut, noble face was sagging.

  ‘Hello, Cliff. You look cheerful.’

  I eased into the room carefully. ‘Compared to you, Tim Fischer’d look cheerful. What’s up?’

  He looked at me but he wasn’t seeing me. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed to be focused on a point far beyond the walls around us. ‘Clinton,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen or heard from him in three weeks, apart from one phone call to his mother. We don’t know where the fuck he is.’

  In our brief acquaintance I’d only known Wesley to swear a few times—when he was really amused, seriously angry or repeating what someone else had said. Now the swearing underlined his distress. I wiped my face with the towel I had hanging around my neck and draped it over my shoulders. I’d been expecting to be rubbed until I glowed. It wasn’t going to happen and I didn’t want to get too cool too quickly. I sat on the massage table and worked my arms. Dedicated trainers develop physical tics like boxers.

  ‘Clinton doesn’t live at home?’

  Wesley shook his head. ‘No, he moved out two years ago when he started university. He’s lived in a few shared houses out that way—Campbelltown, Picton. You know, like students do. Most recently he was living in Helensburgh. But he kept in touch, sort of—phoned, came home for meals and to do his washing. He worked in here from time to time. Hell, when it suited him. You saw him in the gym. And he usually slept at home those nights. He didn’t show up the week before last. Nothing new in that. I phoned and there was no answer. I thought what the hell, he’s gone off with a team, forgot to tell us about it. Or there was a girl involved. He’s always been a more or less steady lad but he loses his head over girls. And remember I told you about that business with his sister. I thought maybe he was making a point. I wasn’t too worried. Next week no show and I phone again. The kid he shares the house with says he hasn’t seen him for three weeks. He’s pissed off about the rent. Shit!’

  He banged his fist into his palm with a force that would’ve broken a brick. ‘I should’ve gone down straightaway when he didn’t turn up. Mandy wanted me to go but I was busy and she’s over-protective. She can’t drive for a bit after that whiplash she got a while back. I went yesterday.’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘What did you find when you got there?’

  ‘Nothing, sweet f.a. His car’s still there and all his clothes and other stuff as far as I could see. But he’s . . .’ He broke off and rubbed at his eyes with his huge fists. If he’d been doing much of that it explained their bloodshot condition.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I told the police at Helensburgh. They went through all the motions but, you know how it is, a black kid goes missing. They don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘What about a girlfriend?’

  ‘First thing I thought of, but that’s it. He hasn’t got one just now. Broke up with the last one nearly a year ago. Nice girl she was. I asked the kid in the house . . . Christ, I came on a bit heavy I suppose, and I didn’t get anything out of him really. But he didn’t mention a girl.’

  ‘What about his friends at university?’

  He looked up again and this time he was seeing me and what I was seeing was despair and guilt etched into his features and movements. ‘He’s twenty years old, Cliff. He’s a man. You haven’t got any kids, have you?’

  I shook my head. When I hear about this sort of thing I’m not sorry about it.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like. You raise them from the time you can nearly hold them in your two hands.’ He spread his fingers, showing huge pink palms. Wesley Scott was 190 centimetres plus, with hands to match. ‘When they’re young, you know all their friends. Shit, you’re feeding them half the time. Then they grow up to be as big as you and you have to let them go. You don’t know who their friends are anymore. They don’t come around on their fucking bikes. They’ve all got cars and you never see them. You’re lucky if you get your own kid’s new address and phone number inside a couple of weeks when he moves house. That’s the way it is.’

  I could imagine it and how hard it must be. But my professional instincts were taking over. You can find out, I thought. But only if you know how. I had a raft of questions but it was more a moment for counselling. Without quite meaning it, I said things about how good the police were in these matters and how few adult males who dropped out of sight came to any harm. Wesley shook his head, flicking off these suggestions the way a dog shakes off water.

  ‘Mandy’s going out of her brain. I think she blames me in some way. Pauline can’t practise or study and I can’t think of a fucking thing to do!’

  ‘I could look into it for you, Wes. I’ve got a private enquiry agent’s licence. Might be able to help.’

  He lifted his head and seemed to almost rise out of his seat as if reaching for a rung on a ladder. ‘God,’ he said. ‘A private detective. I’ve been thinking of you as the ex-boxer security guard coming good again. You’re a bloody private detective, are you? Would you take it on, Cliff? Please?’

  2

  Wesley Scott wasn’t wealthy but he was prosperous. The gym fees weren’t cheap and he had a full list of customers; he did pri
vate massages at hefty rates for some well-connected people, like judges and politicians; he was on the training staff of a pro basketball team and he was often called in as a consultant by other sporting organisations. He explained all this to me after I’d told him that my fees were two hundred dollars a day and expenses.

  ‘I can afford you,’ he said. ‘And hiring you makes it feel like I’m doing something. Mandy’ll feel the same.’

  ‘I’d be happy to put in some time on it for friendship’s sake.’

  ‘No way! And now that you’ve given me the idea, if you don’t agree I’ll hire another detective.’

  That was the clincher. I got what details I could—a copy of the missing person’s report Wesley had lodged with the police, Clinton’s address in Helensburgh, the name of the person he shared the house with, the make and colour of his car, something on the courses he was doing and a note from Wesley authorising me to inspect his son’s belongings. I told Wesley I’d fax him a contract which he could sign and fax back. He insisted on writing out the retainer cheque there and then. I didn’t protest; things do become more serious when money changes hands. I asked Wesley if he had a photograph. He rummaged in a drawer and came up with a recent snap taken by Mandy. She’d caught her boy standing with his arms in the air and a wide smile on his handsome face. He wore tight shorts and a sleeveless black jersey with a red diagonal stripe on it. I could see four goalposts in the background, two tall, two shorter.

  ‘Australian football,’ I said.

  Wesley shrugged. ‘The game’s a mystery to me but the boy’s good at it. He plays for Campbelltown in the local competition. Centre half-forward, whatever that means. I’ve watched him play. He kicks goals. He’s just kicked one in the picture there. Strange game—they pass forward and back, no offside. Soccer’s my game. You?’

  ‘Union, used to be. I’ve lost interest lately.’ I wiped my hands on the towel before picking up the cheque and the photo. ‘What other sports does he play?’

  ‘You name it. He’s off a five handicap at golf, plays basketball for the university . . .’